4. Sydney
The backpack hits the backseat of my Camry with a thud, teetering along the edge before dropping to the floor of the car as I fling the door shut.
“Are you sure you don’t want a ride?” I shield my eyes from the sun as it flares just behind where Laura, my best friend, is standing on the sidewalk in front of school.
“No, I’m supposed to meet Ricky by the flagpole,” she says. The mischief behind her wiggling brows isn’t hard to miss, especially as she pops her gum with a crooked smile.
“Message received.” I roll my eyes playfully, not bothering to hide my own grin. “See you tomorrow.”
I sink into the driver’s seat and watch through the windshield as she scurries off. When she disappears around the side of the high school building, my smile slowly fades, the same way my shoulders slump now that the distraction from the school day is over.
Sliding the gear into reverse, I take my time exiting the parking lot, not at all in a hurry to get home. The lot is mostly empty now that it’s nearly an hour after the last dismissal bell rang. I had eagerly agreed to stay after school to help Laura put up posters for Les Mis , the end-of-the-year production she has a lead role in.
I linger at the stop sign, trying to come up with anything else that could delay me going home. Do I have any errands to run? Not really. Any friends’ houses to stop by? Nope, they’re all at after-school activities.
In years past, I’ve always been eager to head home after a long day at school. I couldn’t wait to see my mom, who always had a tray of fresh cookies waiting, and debrief about my day. But this year, my senior year—the one that’s supposed to be filled with excitement and anticipation—has been completely different. The vibes in our house, not to mention the overall tone of our family, has just been…off lately.
Resigned, I accept the fact that I’ve pushed it off as long as I can and take a right out of the lot.
I drive one mile under the speed limit on the country road as it curves, veering toward the main road that runs right through the heart of Baudette.
It’s quiet and simple, my hometown. There’s not much more than a hardware store, gas station, and a diner next to the marina where boats and a floatplane or two are typically tied up. There are rows of motels nestled along each side, where fishermen and weekenders come to stay before hitching a ride out to one of the islands.
I pass by each business before taking a left at the four-way stop just past the mechanic shop. After a mile on the winding road, I turn right and jostle with the car as it bobs over the uneven surface of our gravel driveway. Our farmhouse-style house, complete with a wraparound front porch, is nestled on the bank of the Rainy River, which is just barely visible from the driveway.
This sight used to fill me with peace and calm when coming home.
Lately, it’s been filling me with dread.
Swinging the backpack over my shoulder, I reluctantly climb out of my seat just as dad’s boots stomp down the wooden steps of the porch.
“Hey, Syd.” It may be subtle, but I know him well enough to pick up on the exhaustion in his voice. It stands out to me because it’s uncharacteristic of him. As much as he’s been trying to keep his typical jovial way about him, a solemnity has been coming through lately despite his best efforts.
“Hey, Dad,” I say as upbeat as I can, using quite a bit of force to make the words sound normal. If he can brush his emotions to the side, I can do the same.
“I’m heading out to the island to help Graham for a bit. He’s been out there all day. I’ll be back before nightfall,” he says in a rush while trying to look reassuring. “Shelly stopped by to visit with Mom, so she’s inside too.”
I can see exactly what he’s doing, playing it off as if Shelly is here for a normal, casual visit between two friends…but I see it for what it is.
After one of Mom’s most alarming episodes to date last week, where she got ‘lost’ in the middle of the hardware store, and she worked herself up into a complete frenzy when she couldn’t figure out where she was, he hasn’t left her side since. That is, unless one of her friends conveniently happens to be stopping by for a visit for the same amount of time it takes him to run whatever errand he needs to get done.
Mom’s memory has been slowly declining for a while now. What started a few years ago as forgetting minor details here and there has turned into more and more frequent lapses lately, leaving all of us confused and desperate as we search for answers.
Hence the uneasiness in the air and my reluctance to spend a lot of time here. It’s uncomfortable and unsettling. You can’t help but feel every tiny shift in a home when the heart of it has been faltering.
“Okay.” I wave to Dad, who’s already climbing into his truck. “See you later.”
I take a steadying breath before heading inside, bracing myself for whatever state Mom might be in. It’s been nothing short of jarring when she can’t seem to remember things that a mother most definitely should.
I drop my stuff on the entryway bench and follow Shelly’s soft voice into the kitchen, where she and Mom are baking cookies at the island.
“Hi, dear.” Mom’s eyes light up when she spots me, and I give her my best forced smile. It hurts just to look at her lately; not knowing what’s going on inside her mind makes me feel sad and defeated.
“Hey, Mom. Hi, Shelly.” I slide onto a barstool, reaching for a piece of cookie dough.
“How was Mrs. Jacobson’s class today? Did she grade your term paper about the biology of the forest yet?” Mom asks calmly, and my stomach clenches.
“She did. I aced it,” I say, even though that paper—and teacher, for that matter—was from my junior year. One whole year ago.
My gaze snags on Shelly’s as she searches me, doubt of her own in her eyes. With a satisfied nod, Mom focuses on the ingredients in front of her, moving on, having no idea that her innocent question is wreaking havoc on me internally.
How does she not know what grade I’m in? How long will it be this time until she snaps back to now?
The amount of time it takes for her to shift out of her episodes seems to vary, with no rhyme or reason to them, which makes it all the more unsettling. I watch the two of them as they move around the kitchen, Shelly trying her best to act like things are normal. The uneasiness I feel practically burns a hole through my stomach until I physically can’t take it anymore. A rising pressure in my chest adds to the mix and fuels me up and off of the stool.
“I’m going to get started on my homework.” I manage a quick wave before retreating up the stairs, not bothering to wait for a reply from either of them.
These crushing emotions feel like they’re eating me alive, eclipsed only by the worry I have for Mom, and I stomp up the stairs, hating every single thing about this situation all of us are in.
Closing my bedroom door, I soak in the quiet comfort of my room and remind myself that all I can do is focus on what I can control in my life. And that is finishing these last few months of school until I graduate—and then I can get some much-needed space from it all.